Your passion for extremes has always given me a sense of excitement and this new found energy. I got caught up in your adventurous nature, that dark curly hair, and those sparkly eyes.
I never understood: why your ironing basket was always empty, why you had those strange contraptions hooked on to your ironing board, and why you always took so much care of that ironing board.
I began to question our love, for you would sneak away and then return unkempt and exhausted. What were you doing? Had you found someone else to touch and tingle?
Then, one day out of the blue, you took me into your world and showed me your soul. You showed me: how much you love to go on adventures, how to conduct extreme ironing in exotic locations, why adventures with two is better than adventures with one, and why power points never seem close when you are so far away.
We continue to embrace your ironing board until this day –
There are photographs on our walls of that ironing board, you and me.
Since they were young, Claire and Ann loved to hang out together. Whether they were wagging physical education, using liquid paper to deface their school desks, plotting someone’s demise, or simply being fatalistically cool, these two were inseparable.
They lost touch until they were in the thirties. Instantly recognising the other, these friends decided to make an afternoon of their long overdue reunion.
Ann loves nature, so they decided to go back to her place while the gents were out.
Claire forgot what a hills hoist looked like. It had been so long since she had seen the clothes line of her childhood. It reminded her of simpler times and the feeling of freedom.
They began to roll around together under the hills hoist. There was much chatter, chirping, and burping from these two as they re-acquaint one with the other.
They giggled as they once did as school girls, despite leaving all of that behind long ago.
Under the hills hoist they watch it spin and spin as they hallucinate about unicorns, dragons, and more. Colours fill their minds and the world seems to feel so right.
Under the hills hoist, they make merry for they sampled magic mushrooms.
Saucepans of stainless steel sit within the kitchen cupboard. They lament the days when their forms connected with the stove often and such tasty meals were prepared within their confines.
Lately, they seem so sad. Are they sad or am I sad?
What should I do to help these poor objects reach their full potential? Is it me that is the problem, in that I do not cook any more and buy too much sushi?
These questions fill me with a sense of excitement as I reach for the cook books. A cake for one is a bad idea, but then one can be eaten for breakfast each day.
I reach for the saucepans and smash them in the air for luck.
Then it begins.
Running and jumping,
banging and clanging,
mumbling and humming,
singing and spinning.
The oven is hot,
the cake takes shape,
the saucepans tell me they are happy,
and we celebrate with a glass of champagne.
There was a day when the washing machine decided to display an error message. It was a Saturday. Birds chattered in the trees outside. A couple of visitors were coming over to critique the state of my furniture and interior decorating choices. There were many things to do. There wasn’t enough time to visit a repair person or find another machine.
The thought of connecting my foot with this innocent looking machine sent a jolt of joy to my demeanour. I thought how lovely it would be to throw this machine at my visitors when they walked into my home to inspect and patronise me and mine so ardently.
Standing in front of my trusty steed of a washing machine, I could do nothing but think about how the washing would be washed. Would it be by some divine hand that the clothes would become wet and clean? Would there be another option, such as a personal servant? Would I simply give up and throw them out the front door?
This error message jolted me from a life of comfortable bliss, in which the clothes went into a machine and then came out smelling sweet and feeling wet yet dry. Now I’m faced with manually scrubbing the little beasts with my hands, wood, kitchen utensils, perhaps the dishwasher, or god knows what else?
That day I realised that the washing machine of my life keeps fucking with my clothes.
The laundry is full of our clothes. Some are small, some are large, some display a lack of fashion sense, some are sexy, some are sloppy, while others should be thrown in the bin.
We wear these clothes upon our skin because we are trapped within our monetary constraints, the temptation to buy designer labels does not appeal to our sensibilities, and the thought of shopping sends a feeling of dread down our spines.
Sometimes I wonder about these crumpled clothes that pile up upon the laundry floor. Why do they keep piling up so high? Will I die with a basket of unwashed clothing in my house with pictures of cats on my knickers? Will I be remembered as the person with bad fashion sense and a taste for kinky underwear? Is Jesus even real?
So many thoughts move through my head, as I contemplate all of these important ideas about washing, and clothing, and life, and all of that stuff that occupies no place in a normal person’s mind.
The laundry is like my life – crumpled clothes keep filling up the washing basket of my life to clutter my day, make me question so many things, and give one a sense of pessimistic dread at the thought of leaving connubial constraints laid bare for the world to see when I die.
I saw a hardwood floor made of oak the other day. The floor was smooth and beautiful.
When I saw the hardwood floor, I recalled that hardwood floor that you and I lived upon in that place.
I recalled the nights of cold and terror, the torture of your words, the way you humiliated me –
the way you changed me forever.
The kitchen was once her refuge. It was a place where she could create anything. The kitchen was a place of her own in a tiny house.
Then he got a taste for cooking. It ceased to be a place where she could create anything. He mocks her creations and says his creations are better than hers.
They stand in the kitchen together one evening as he scolds her for being different from him with her creations.
She lets it go and decides to fill the dishwasher and turn it on. Water begins to exit the dishwasher through the door and pour out all over the floor.
He blames her for the dishwasher malfunctioning to which she replies, “when the water exits the dishwasher I am reminded of all the bullshit that flows from your jaw”.
He stands at the bench unable to think of something witty to say as she walks from the kitchen, to the garage, and out the door.